


I Am, He Is

by frickfrackel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Jean is a poetic asshole, M/M, Too Many Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 00:16:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3430883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frickfrackel/pseuds/frickfrackel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If I am the Moon, then he is the Sun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am, He Is

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is my first time posting on AO3 and the first fic I've written since my Maximum Ride years hoo boy. I made it M because there is a brief scene of implied sexiness but it's not terrible. Please enjoy this short, fluffy piece of trash.  
> In which Jean is a poetic loser.

If I am the Moon, then he is the Sun.

He shines with his own light, and like that barren sphere of rock I make it my personal vendetta to absorb every spark and flare that he has to offer. Maybe it’s selfish of me to take so much from him and not share with anyone else, to horde all of his time and warmth and soft smiles and cast a planet-sized shadow in my wake.

I know better.

I see the way our classmates eye me when I walk by, how they point and whisper  _there goes that Kirstein kid, what a jerk, how can Marco stand him?_ I honestly don’t know. I steal from him with every accidently-on-purpose brush of my hand on his shoulder, with every furtive glance in his direction when he isn’t looking. I wrestle with myself, and my greed, and my incredible thirst for his attention. But then my eyes meet his from across the cafeteria and he smiles at me, and in that moment I know that I would happily face the consequences of a thousand eclipses if that’s what it took to stay in his light.

If I am the Ocean, then he is the Shore.

He’s the heated grains of sand that still clings to you long after you've left the coast, leaving little reminders in your shoes and hair lest you forget that he was there. It amazes me how he’s still able to retain that heat in the coolness of the movie theater, even after an unsure current sweeps my clammy hand over the armrest to tangle his fingers with my own. He gives my hand a squeeze and the way he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye causes my throat run dry and an intense feeling of _longing_ wash over me. It’s only later, when we’re standing on his front porch and he peers down at me through dark eyelashes doI let go, and the tide rushes in with clacking teeth and fumbling touches. I am waves and sea foam and I break against his eager lips over and over and over again.

If I am the Mortar, then he is the Pestle.

He’s always been a patient man. Even after the two of us left behind the innocence of our childhood and ventured into the real world, he never became bitter, unreasonable, or demanding. If anything, the harsh reality of adulthood only seemed to make him kinder and gentler in his mannerisms.

The way he makes love is no different.

The steady, _maddening_ way with which he rocks his sturdy hips threatens to grind my sanity between our bodies until it’s nothing more than dust, a fine powdering of _Marco_ and _please_ and _more_ that puffs upwards from my swollen lips like a prayer. He’s everywhere: above me, around me, inside me, and I don’t even know which way is up anymore but it doesn’t matter because he’s mouthing at that spot behind my ear and I’m falling to fucking _pieces_ underneath him. I try to tell him so, to say something, _anything_ besides the pathetic little whines that are spilling from my mouth, but I can’t because suddenly his movements pick up. Steady grinding becomes desperate, uneven pounding and he’s gripping my thigh and breathing my name and with a shout I’m gone, gone, _gone_ from this world with my arms wrapped tight around his neck and an _I love you_ perched on the tip of my tongue.

If I am Vexation, then he is Forgiveness.

My mother always warned me that words can cut deeper than knives if you’re not careful. I never listened (why didn't I?) and sliced my way through this world with a fuck-you attitude and a notoriety worn like armor. I regret it now, I regret it so much. It doesn't matter though, the damage has been done, and tears are welling up in his eyes like blood from a wound and I’m sorry, I’m so fucking _sorry_. But I’m choking on the apologies that get stuck in my throat and the sensation of drowning doesn't stop even after he’s long gone, disappeared down the hall of our apartment to sleep alone.

Sleeping on the couch had never bothered me, I’d done my fair share of couch surfing as a teenager, but this time it’s different because the pillows still smell like his hair and I can hear the muffled consequences of what I've done escaping out from behind our bedroom door. I can’t even remember what we were fighting about. I’m crying too, but my tears are bitter because anger is my fallback, a go-to mindset left over from years of disguising my insecurities with a bad attitude and I _hate_ myself for it.

He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve a hateful thing like me in his life, someone who leeches off the goodness of others like some kind of starving, asshole vampire. When morning comes, I get off my sorry ass to tell him myself, to tell him that I’m shit and he deserves so much better, someone who's good and whole like he is-

And stop.

Because there he is, standing in our bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but those stupid, bubblegum pink boxers that I got him as a joke last Christmas and he’s so beautiful, so fucking _gorgeous_ , even with puffy eyes and dried snot on his face. This time tears fall for a completely different reason because _I’m so sorry, Marco_ and he can feel it in the way I gently wrap my arms around his waist and rest my head against his shoulder, just as I sense the _it’s alright, sweetheart_ that his lips press into my hair. I don’t deserve him. But, somehow, he still wants me anyway.

It’s enough.

If I am Dusk, then he is the Dawn.

The expanse of his broad back and shoulders was made for mornings like this, when the soft early light filters through the bed sheet we've improvised as a curtain and sets his body aglow. My fingers trace patterns between the dusting of freckles on his skin, creating complex designs that I can never quite memorize no matter how many times I do this. The contrast between our complexions is as stark as night and day (sometimes he’ll jokingly ask if I’m made of porcelain, and I’ll laugh and grin and invite him to try his best to break me). The pads of my fingers are soon replaced with soft brushes of my mouth, smoothing up from his shoulder, to his neck, over his boyish cheek, before finding a delicate home on his lips. He’s already awake, and he shifts to card a hand through my messy bedhead and deepen the kiss, breathing a sigh through his nose.

“I love you, Jean”, he whispers against my lips, and that’s all I need. Everything I could ever want is contained in those four words, in the way his hands ghost down the knobs of my spine as my own move to twist in his nightshirt. He loves me. Marco Bodt loves me, and that simple declaration, that absolute truth ignites a spark all the way down into the marrow of my bones. It radiates throughout my entire being, illuminating my heart and soul like a flame. Like the sun.

Because if I am the Darkness, then he is the Light.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated as well as kudos!


End file.
